


I Only Ever Wanted

by soakyourskin



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Drunk Dialing, M/M, Post-Zayn One Direction, Sad Liam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:27:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soakyourskin/pseuds/soakyourskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds it almost comical that out of all of the days, all of the months, all of the pictures and bullshit articles that he's forced himself to ignore, this is what will break his carefully constructed guise of<em> okay, I'm okay. I'm fine</em>. It's almost comical that this is it.</p>
<p>August is what breaks him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Only Ever Wanted

Liam's fingers itch with the urge to grab his phone—wet from the splash of liquor on the bar countertop—type out his name, and press call. He won't though. He hasn't for a while now (five months and four days to be exact). Not since the day that _he_ left—padded steps on the carpeted floor, quiet thumps of his feet past a sleeping Liam that he's never before been wary of—but he knows that he's going to start counting from zero again after tonight. He finds it almost comical that out of all of the days, all of the months, all of the pictures and bullshit articles that he's forced himself to ignore, this is what will break his carefully constructed guise of _okay, I'm okay. I'm fine_. It's almost comical that this is it.

August is what breaks him.

Just today, even. Just this one day with the usual flurry of _happy birthday, Liam!_ that has always made him feel warm inside, smile stretched too wide, cheeks burning with every greeting his eyes skimmed past. Nothing from him though. Not a single call or text or, god forbid, an indirect tweet that would have been enough for him to keep close and bury where no one would notice and need to address. None that would have lead to excessive amounts of Harry's too sweet tea that he thinks Liam likes when he's feeling homesick. None that would have lead to hours of Niall's coddling and constant touching when he thinks Liam aches for skin covered in ink. None that would have lead to a quiet night of Louis getting him alone and having startlingly serious conversation after they've burned through a whole pack, and their lungs— _I know it feels like living in skin that isn't yours anymore. There's not really a way to stop loving him. He's taken that freedom from you._

He hadn't gotten anything, hadn't received a single message that would have let him known it was fine to still think of him at night when his throat goes dry with the same name he's tried to claw out of his chest too often in the past few months. He hadn't gotten anything, hadn't received a single message. And after too many shots of whatever the bartender's been handing out to him— _it's on the house, sweetheart,_ he said earlier with a wink and a deliberate touch of skin as he passed the glasses filled with multicolored liquid—that makes Liam shiver with the need for warmth he's lost instead of making him brave, he seeks him out.

It's too loud, the ringing in his ears. Much louder than the boom of the music blaring from the speakers as he snakes his way through the crowd, finding the dimly lit sign— _exit_ , and making his way outside to the type of dark, grimy, alleyway that they always used to joke was the place he'd meet him if their lives went a different direction. He's maybe hoping for it now. He's maybe wondering how much of this would remain, how much would go, if they'd just met outside a cheap bar instead, cigarettes dangling from the tips of their fingers, wisps of smoke blown out of their mouths. He shakes himself of that thought, the ringing in his ears taking its place instead, and it's loud, too loud, but he's a bit relieved that he's hearing it at least, instead of the kind of silence Liam's learned to associate his name with.

That's exactly what he gets though, after the fifth ring cuts off to him picking up the call. Silence is the first thing Liam gets from him, and that's just—it's a bit like the universe laughing at him, conspiring against him, reminding him that that is exactly what he got from him before he left, and it's exactly what he's getting now. He's afraid to break it with his name. He's not said it, or thought it, in as long a time as he's heard his own come out of his mouth, but he does it now. _Zayn_ , a whoosh as it leaves his lungs on an exhale, the word feeling unfamiliar on his tongue, rough when it passes his lips, left hanging when he doesn't reply. _Zayn_ , he says again, this time for himself, but it's the one he reacts to.

_Li,_ in the form of a question, quiet like the time after he first kissed Liam and he wasn't sure whether to say anything. Quiet, and hesitant, and it's the same way now, so Liam responds like he did back in the hotel room, years ago, with the slow hum of the television behind them then, and the bass of whatever song is playing inside the bar rattling his bones now. _Hi_ , light and almost too sweet, far sweeter than the syrup mixed with all that he downed awhile back, but it startles a laugh out of Zayn because he remembers. He remembers, and it makes Liam ache with want to go back and feel him for the first time again, see _that_ smile for the first time again because he's realized he's not alone in it, in this thing that they've found they had.

_'s your birthday, yeah?_ is what Zayn says after, curious like he really didn't know, and Liam wonders what he had to do to forget. If he took a cold shower every night after he went back home, scrubbed at his skin until he felt raw enough to peel away all the layers of _liamliamliamliam_ that he covered himself with, if he cut all of his off hair because he could still feel the gentle pull of Liam's fingers like they used to do when he'd thread through it, if he bought that house so far from home, just so he could paint the walls with _liamliamliamliam_ without anyone seeing, and leave nothing for himself to keep afterward. Liam wonders what he did, how he did it, in so little time, and with so much ease. He wonders if it's possible for him to do the same.

He lifts shaky fingers up to his mouth, pressing the filter to his lips and sucking hard enough that he feels it burn all the way down his throat, feels the sluggish movement of it trickling into his lungs, feels it scratch at his insides on the way out, and when he speaks he knows he's got the smoke to blame for the way his voice leads with tremors.

_Are you happy?_ is what he goes with instead of a reply, a beat too long after, and it's not the best way to go about it, he knows, but it's the one question above all others, above _where do we go from here,_ and _where was my goodbye,_ and _do I still call myself yours_ , that he needs to know the answer to because that's all that matters to him. He waits, takes another drag from his nearly burnt out stick, watches the way the end burns bright red on his inhale, watches the way the smoke curls as it escapes into the night. He watches and he waits until Zayn lets out a sigh he's gone far too long without hearing, before _it's not that simple,_ a crackle in the line as he breathes in and out again. _It's—I have this now. I've gotten myself back, y'know? But I'm never going to feel like I used to. Before all this. I've left too much of myself behind._

And it's so goddamn cliché is what it is, a fucking stereotype that he's found himself in. That ex that finds himself crying in the dark of the alley outside a shoddy pub at four in the morning, with everything he's ever wanted on the other line, so far from where he is that he feels suffocated with the distance, as if that makes any sense. It's a goddamn cliché, and he sucks in a breath anyway, loud enough that he's certain Zayn hears the tiny hiccup even through the crackle of the call.

He takes in a shallow breath, and he wants to ask, _is it_ _that shirt that I keep telling myself you didn't actually forget you tucked into my luggage just the night before? Is it that copy of your favorite book I know you wouldn't have left without taking? Or is it me? Am I what you've left behind?_ but he doesn't, he keeps his mouth pressed together, pulling another cigarette out of his crumpled pack because he can't handle this conversation without something that allows him an excuse for every quiver in his response. _But you're happy,_ is the most he manages on a steady tone, hands trembling as he lights another up, lips twitching with the lines he won't dare say out loud.

_But you're happy like this? But you're happy even apart from me? But you're happy even when I know your bed feels too stiff and cold with just you in it? But you're happy?_

And when Zayn answers with _yeah,_ after a long pause, like he really thought about it, like he really does mean it, Liam swallows his words down because it's enough. It's enough to hear him say it—even as _I've left too much of myself behind_ , calls to him like a steady thrumming in his veins telling him not to believe it. Telling him it's not true. It's enough that when his skin crawls with _it wasn't enough, you weren't enough_ _to make him stay_ , he finds a way to tamp it down with Zayn's quiet assurance, and his own masochistic, _but he's happy_.

**Author's Note:**

> If it seems a tad bit unfinished, it's bc it is. I'll add the remaining parts if I ever get back to feeling like I did when I wrote this xx


End file.
